What would he say if he could see me like this:

stinking of nicotine, sitting in the dark

across from the fucker with fat fingers

who’s never seen anything like me before.


Would he kiss me

Or tell me to brush my teeth?


Nowadays I can drink a carafe of wine and not feel a thing.

I got all the mean, deep feelings a girl could want.

Does that count for something in a lover?


What would he say if he could see me:

“Just because you went down south for a few days,

it doesn’t make you a bohemian.”


Would he bring lilacs?

Would we drown in the silence?

Would he find anything irresistible left inside of me?


Maybe I can still forget about him.

There’s always that distant possibility.



The Man I Loved


He drifted out with the tide.

He burned away on the end of a cigarette.

Or maybe he went out for a carton of milk

And never came back.


It was a harmless kind of disappearing.



Kate Douglas

Kate Douglas is a writer and performance artist living in New York. As a playwright, her work has been produced at Ars Nova and Joe’s Pub. She is a recipient of the National Society of Arts and Letters’ Lavina Kohl Award for Excellence in Literature and the NJ Governors Award in Arts Education for her short play Treading Water. Her poetry has been published in Contrary Magazine, among others.

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